


Years to a Minute

by Til_the_End



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Crime Drama, Emotional Infidelity, Endgame James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, M/M, Minor Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Multi, NYPD!Bucky, NYPD!Steve, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, SVU related crimes, Slow Burn, all triggers related to sex crimes, minor Sam Wilson/Riley/Natasha Romanov, please read the notes, sexual identity crisis, triggers in notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 03:45:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13022556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Til_the_End/pseuds/Til_the_End
Summary: Steve isn't good with emotions. Everything with Sharon is easy, and he should be praising that, but love isn't meant to be easy, is it?The day Bucky Barnes comes to Manhattan SVU is the day Steve Rogers questions everything he's known about his own emotions.





	Years to a Minute

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when NaNoWriMo gets away from me while I'm watching Law and Order: SVU.
> 
> Because there's so many events in this fic, I will be putting the specific trigger warnings relevant to the chapter in the notes. So PLEASE READ THE NOTES before delving in. Thank you.
> 
> Trigger Warnings for this chapter (all acts are non-explicit, ONLY DISCUSSED):  
> sexual acts against minors  
> abuse against minors  
> rape of minors  
> female serial rapist  
> mentions of trauma

December 2017

To say one Natasha Romanoff is right, about anything, is a humbling experience in Steve Rogers opinion.

Since before he can remember, Steve Rogers has always been a wine and dine kind of date, taught from a young age to treat a woman with respect; absolute courtesy is all they should expect from him. His mother had raised him to be the kind of man that women were not wary of. A man they could come to with the knowledge he would see them home safely, or offer a shoulder to cry on. It was disturbing to think women had to worry about going to a bar, a club, walking down the street, or even taking the train, but alas it was the world they lived in and Steve did his damnedest to see his dates, and anyone else, into cabs safely. 

To say such behaviour would be a draw to women would not have been an understatement. More than one woman offered sex inebriated, or otherwise, for everyday civility. When he would politely turn them down-- explaining he wasn’t the type of man to “hit and quit it”--some became more voracious; eager to know a man who appeared to be so wholesome. He lived, everyday, with the fact that women looked to him as some kind of ideal; someone to take home. That told him more about society than seven years in Special Victims ever could.

Natasha, a self proclaimed best friend, had been persistent that he try a one night stand; a necessary life experience for any man in his late 20s, in her opinion. Her focus set in on their precinct receptionist, Karen. “She’d probably say yes if you asked.”

Which is why he didn’t ask. 

There were no emotions in one night stands beyond the baser human instincts to copulate. A euphoria that lasted for a hair’s breadth of a second, leaving you yearning for more. That was enough for some--most, according to Natasha--people, which is why apps like Tinder existed in the first place, he presumed. But Steve was definitely looking for more meaning than just a ‘pump and dump’ evening after drinks. That’s why, when Natasha suggested his neighbor, Steve actually made a go of it; if only to stop Natasha’s persistent need to find him a wife before Christmas.

He knew Sharon Carter, having had a handful of conversations in passing in their apartment complex’s hallway; tentatively, he’d call them friends. 

One night he starts a conversation with her. A snowy night, moon shrouded in thick pillows of clouds--despite snow not being in the forecast for another few days.Steve hated the idea of sending anyone to the coin laundry after hours--knowing she frequented them--especially in such miserable weather. He stumbles over his invitation of hot cocoa, promising her use of his washer, in his heated apartment. Sharon chuckles at him, covering her dull pink lips with her hand before nodding, giving a small ‘sure’, walking to his apartment without her laundry in hand.

There was many things Steve could say he knew about Sharon.  
She is a nurse. She always came home in scrubs, covered in blood he was sure wasn’t her own. She’s fit, lean, muscular, which indicated she cared about fitness. Her hair is blonde, the roots a darker color, perhaps a bottle blonde. A blonde that contrasted beautifully with dark brown eyes. 

Usually she wore the bare minimum of make-up, indicative of someone who favored extra sleep in the mornings, or perhaps, she had no desire to wear it. It was her face, after all.

All these things he can observe, deduce from practiced behaviours, observation ingrained in him from day one at the academy. Steve catches himself watching Sharon like a victim, or even a suspect, for the slightest of twitches, ticks that may betray her confidence, her thoughts as she moves past him into his apartment. He does not expect how forward she is.

When they, inevitably, fall onto his bed, tearing at each other’s clothes he manages to get out that he was really meaning his offer of using his washer. She laughs, more like she’s humoring him than actually believing him, but his mind goes startling blank when she begins to do things to his body that he wasn’t completely sure were humanely possible. A part of him wants to ask how she got so talented with her mouth, another part says that’s none of his business, and downright rude to ask a woman about her sexual history.

Truth be told, Steve can count the number of sexual partners he’s had on one hand; one finger, actually. So his spectrum for comparison is slim. He almost feels inadequate next to the experience Sharon clearly has. Yet, not once does she complain through his return favor of oral, or his fumbling of rolling a condom on.

He critiques himself a thousand and one ways in his head. His thrusts were to rapid, more akin to bunnies mating. Too slow, like how a sloth might mate, given their tendency to be rather slow creatures. Perhaps he’s meant to pull out, but she’s loose and wet and thrashing under him, and he thinks that maybe he spends too much time in his job to not consider his own sex life. There’s a thousand and one thoughts running through his head during the coupling, all which culminate into a singular lust driven need to have Sharon until they’re both crying in orgasm. 

When it’s over, he rolls off her, disposes properly of the condom and watches her for a bit as she twists his plain white bedsheets in her fist, breath heavy, hair askew, face marked with bliss. She tells him it’s the best she’s ever had, and he’s pretty sure everyone says that to, everyone they sleep with. He climbs back into bed, pulls her close, promising her breakfast in the morning. She giggles against his sweat covered chest, complies; they both drift off to sleep.

The morning comes and Sharon is awake before he is, going about his room collecting her clothes, looking around for her bra. “What time do you work?” he asks, as she fumbles with getting the straps untangled. 

“I’m on the afternoon shift, so gives me time to wash a couple of my scrubs.”

“I told you, you could use my washer last night,” he reminds, climbing out of bed, stretching his arms above his head as she laughs. He turns to glance at her, her bra now securely in place, her eyes searching around for her shirt. “Why is that funny?” he inquires, going to his dresser for a fresh pair of boxers. Truthfully, he needs a shower first, but he promised Sharon breakfast and she looks ready to run out the door. Only, when he questions her, she pauses, shirt in hand, looking at him as if he’s grown a second head, or spouted a sporadic pimple.

“Wait…” she says the word slowly as if she’s trying to puzzle out a riddle. “...wasn’t that a line?” she asks cautiously, doubling back over the night and Steve feels himself literally facepalming, ignoring the smell of his hand that is covered in the remnants of sex.

“I..no...I literally meant…” he stutters, looking around for anything to stabilize himself because Sharon thought laundry was a line.

She covers her mouth, eyes moving rapidly as she plays over the conversation last night. It takes a moment, then she’s pushing past him into the hall, taking the left that leads her back to the main room. Steve is sure she’s about to pull a Road Runner, like in old Looney Tunes cartoons, and disappear into a cloud of smoke. Her eyes survey the room and land on the mugs, next to a box of Swiss Miss he had intended to make, not knowing if she liked homemade or instant hot cocoa. That had been before she asked him where his laundry room was, then sex had happen. “Oh my god, you were making hot chocolate…” her voice is quivering now. “...but I asked to see your laundry room...and you..your bedroom.”

He blinks, eyes likely wide like Bambi staring down a hunter. He’d been in the kitchen when she asked where the laundry room was, he had led her down the hall, she had glanced at the bedroom and that was it. Now that he thought about it, she probably thought he was leading her to the bedroom, not to the closet across from his bedroom that held the stacked washer and dryer. That was when he took the opportunity to show her the closed door, opening it to reveal the small laundry space, complete with an open box of Tide, and a bottle of Downy that was dripping from leftovers in the cap.

She gasps, now frenzy in an effort to pull her shirt on. “Oh my god, you weren’t..and then I...oh my god..” she’s stammering over her words as she replayed everything back to him in detailed motions of her hands. “You must think I’m easy now, great.”

“I don't think that at all,” he reassured. “And just to clarify, I was absolutely serious about that breakfast before I go in. There’s a waffle place a couple blocks down, if you don’t mind chain food.”

Sharon is an attractive shade of pink for most of the morning, repeating, like a metronome, that she really had thought he was looking to sleep with her. He confesses that he enjoyed the sex, but would have definitely preferred to do things the other way around, treat her with a proper meal first before having sex. There was a tingling in the back of his head that told him, knowing someone before sex, was just so much more comforting. The good thing is, they’ve both seen each other naked and that moves them past the first awkward hump in their relationship.

Over breakfast Steve learns that Sharon is a nurse as she works towards a degree in neurosurgery, and she’s looking to start her residency as soon as next year. She wants to specialize in cancer research, especially for children, as she finds it the hardest to watch children go through the illness. She’s lived in the apartment she’s in now for 3 years, before that she was living in DC and at that time thought about joining the CIA. Steve confesses to being an officer of the law. “I started out in Brooklyn and moved up to Manhattan PD, I work in SVU.”

“Like Law and Order,” she teases, poking at her hash browns that are smothered, covered, and whatever variations the name brand Waffle House offers.

“Kind of,” he shrugs, liking the lilt to her voice when she’s ribbing him. He also enjoys the carefree smile she offers as they talk, it makes him feel relaxed enough to continue, believing she’s actually listening. “Not nearly as dramatic as TV, and not usually a case at a time to be solved in five minutes and gone to trial. Our DA is good, but she’s not that good, and she’s usually doing about five different cases at once, so sometimes it makes it harder to expedite sensitive cases.”

She asks if he’s ever thought about joining the FBI, or other government agencies. He confesses to having offers, but never really took them. “In SVU I work with kids, victims, here in New York and there’s so many of them. I know New York, you know, I grew up here, and it’s such a hard choice, really…”

Sharon nodded like she understood what he was saying, and she probably did. There was so many people that needed his help, so many that needed any help, but he couldn’t single handedly take on the world. There was so many reservations about the FBI that he found himself questioning if they would let him help six year old Sally in Utah, whose father may ‘just kidnap’ her because of a custody agreement. Or maybe they’d ignore 8 year old Jack in Mississippi because kids get bruises. At least at SVU, he was able to look into things like that in New York, have a say on there being a case or not. He got the chance to meet the people upfront, not just in dehumanizing pictures pulled from government data files. He likes people meeting him, knowing they were safe; Sharon seems to share that sentiment. 

When breakfast is over, he and Sharon agree to a second date--a real date--at a favorite place of Sharon’s in Queens. Steve smiles, and thinks, maybe Natasha wasn’t wrong after all, and maybe hell froze over.  
_______

Steve arrives to the precinct a bit past nine--white ‘Special Victims Unit’ winking at him in greeting. He’s had a proper shower to wash away the night’s activities. Sharon apologized approximately seven times for her assumptions, before promising not to jump him on their next date. There’s a thrum of anticipation racing through his veins. Jovial waves cresting with expectancy, an anxious urge that occupied a budding friendship; a relationship.

A dopey grin refuses to leave his face as he takes his seat at his desk and his long time partner, Sam Wilson plops down across from him with a fresh cup of coffee. Initially, Steve doesn’t acknowledge him, focused on surroundings he’s known, but never truly seen. For four years he’s sat at this desk, unmoved by the distressed wood, hardly visible beneath mountains of files. An old computer still operating on Windows 7, a placard bearing his name in gold, his framed picture of himself and his mother at Coney Island. All of it has a glow, an au courant spark, a luminescence attributed to his jubilation. Sam arches an eyebrow, helpfully, placing the proverbial nail in Steve’s coffin, vocalizing his thoughts to reach Natasha’s ears. “That’s the look of a man that got some.”

Like dominoes toppling, a flurry of motion is instantaneous, wheels sliding across worn wood, screeching to a stop as plastic careens into the edge of his desk. One fiery Russian meddler appears in his vision, grinning like a cat who caught the canary. “I dare say it is,” Natasha agrees, tucking a wisp of red behind her ear, nudging his ankle with her toe. “I’m not hearing a thank you.”

“And you’re not going to,” he tells her, reaching across her to his computer.

“Who was she?” Sam asks, sipping his coffee, identical to the kermit meme he shared regularly. Steve can hear the man’s leg bouncing with ardor, practically hitting the underside of his desk, awaiting details. “The hot nurse across the hall? Please tell me it was the nurse.”

Steve’s face flushes, eyes diverting from his colleagues, his lack of response betraying him. Natasha whooped, throwing her arms up in triumph. 

“Her name is Sharon. We have a second date planned for Saturday, are you happy? Vultures,” he answers, elbowing Natasha back towards her desk to log into his work database.

“Sam,” Natasha exhales, reaching to pinch Steve’s cheek between freshly manicured nails--Steve scents acetone, grimacing at the overpowering aroma--much to his chagrin. “I do think our boy is growing up.”

He’s annoyed with her, fond exasperation, but it’ll pass, like a wisp of smoke on wind. After all, this is a woman who tried backing classified information with hostiles still abound; had almost gotten them blown into the next life their rookie year. He forgave her for that, meaning she was safe from retribution for her gentle ribbing concerning his love life. The fact he’s floating on cloud nine after his night, seeing the world in technicolor, barely effects his judgement. It’s a good day; one of many, he hopes.

“Wait, are we giving Rogers shit before 10 am?” Clint Barton, Natasha’s partner-in-crimes, asks, entering the bullpen, two unfamiliar people on his heels. Clint, as always, is wearing Ray Bans indoors desiring a rise out of Natasha. Her attention is off Steve, eyes narrowing on Clint who is projecting nonchalance in light of Natasha’s seething. Clint turns his hearing aid off, ignoring Natasha’s chastising with an arbitrary comment stating that he can’t hear her. Steve bites back the grin, having turned off his own aid off when he wants to block the world out. Behind them, the man and woman glance around, finding their baring in their new environment; Steve wonders who they are. New recruits? FBI? Fellow officers with a cas across jurisdiction lines? He couldn’t say. 

He could say the woman looks young, just out of the academy if she’s law enforcement. Her hair is an unnatural tint of red with hints of purple that shimmer when she shifts under the station lights. It’s tied back into a ponytail, but she seems to rethink, quickly reaching back to allow her hair free, as if they were silently judging her look. Like Natasha she’s dressed in a suit, complete with tailored coat and A-line skirt that give her a look of professionalism that most detectives exhibit. She smooths away imaginary wrinkles, oblivious to the conniption happening to her right as Clint gesticulates grandly, glasses held out of Natasha’s reach.

Standing behind her is the most devastatingly attractive man Steve can ever remember seeing. As a heterosexual man, he never gave too much contemplation into the looks of other men, beyond general assessment; he could admit that Sam was conventionally attractive. However, the first thing he notices on this man is his eyes. Startling ocean blues swirled with tumultuous grey, drawing him in like a sharp riptide. A poignant contrast to his chestnut hair. He’s tall, an inch or so under Steve, covered in unblemished ivory flesh, fitted to marble statues amongst the gardens of Versaille. He’s dapper in his fitted suit--Sam whistles his appreciation of the cut--aloof in the way his hands casually rest in his pockets, coat edges hiking on his wrists. This man looks like he should be posing for GQ, instead of standing in Manhattan’s sex crime division making Karen spill coffee down her blouse with a quirk of his lips. Mystery man reads danger, safety, warmth and ice, all in one package; contradiction woven together in an attractive parcel, leaving women inching closer to ogle him.

Natasha whistles, low and wolfish, as she takes them in. Steve catches a mutter of dibs meant for Clint’s ears alone. 

Director Nick Fury steps out of his office, calling for attention from the collective. First order of business is proper introductions; confirming the two unfamiliar faces as rookies. “This is Wanda Maximoff, fresh out of the academy,” he tells them, a subsequent echo ‘Hi Wanda’ is heard before Fury shuts them down with a haughty one-eyed glare. Steve gets the distinct feeling of cold abandon as Fury turns that look on him. “This is Sergeant James Barnes, trading up from Brooklyn PD.”

“Wouldn’t exactly call it a trade up, change of scenery, more like,” Barnes says, full smirk lighting a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 

Steve thinks, what a jerk. 

The women of the room visibly sigh, what a dream boat. 

“We’re changing up the partner arrangements,” Fury continues, undeterred by interruption. Groans rang out at the prospect of playing musical desks for the first time in two years; everyone had their niche; their comfort zone. Fury’s glare silences further objection. 

“Maximoff, you’ll be with Barton. Romanoff, you’re with Wilson..”

“I’m Steve’s partner,” Sam points out, peering around their cluster, grasping what Steve has realized. Natasha is getting Sam that means--

“Rogers, Barnes is with you,” Fury states with finality. “I see one more arrest hit my desk without the damn paperwork, I’m sending the officer responsible to clean the toilets in holding. I make myself clear?”

A chorus of acquiesce follows, a flurry of motion, indicating Fury was done, expecting them to return to work. Clint immediately rushes to Wanda--impishly shoving Natasha aside--holding out his hand, shaking hers furiously. Natasha comes up behind Clint, muttering indignantly in Russian; Wanda (and surprisingly, Barnes) laugh. Whatever she said alleviates the tension in Wanda’s shoulders, like a balloon deflating. Thin lips wrapping around fluid Russian, conversing with Natasha, as if reuniting with an old friend. Barnes stands idly behind them, occasionally offering a word or two into the ladies conversation. Where Steve expects harsh, grunted syllables, he finds clean enunciation, spilling from Barnes lips, forcing him to take notice, making him notice the way Barnes’ lip curls around complex Russian colloquialism. Natasha is all flirtatious hair twirls, fluttering eyelashes, weaving a precise web of sensuality, waiting to see what baits the fly. 

Barnes isn’t falling for it. He leaves when she’s halfway through a sentence, walking over to Steve and Sam’s desk. Sam is reluctantly cleaning out his things to Natasha and Clint’s four desk cluster, to occupy the desk formerly owned by Phil Coulson, Clint’s precious partner. Wanda would, undoubtedly, be take the fourth desk, situated on the opposite endcap from Sam’s new home. Steve wishes her godspeed on surviving the “three ringed circus”. 

That leaves Steve with Barnes sitting directly across from him. Barnes, who speaks Russian, and smirks like Satan has crowned his glory. Barnes, who does nothing but raise a brow as Sam grumbles, “3 years I’ve been at this desk, I like this desk.” Grabbing up his falcon bobblehead, glaring at Clint who is waving him over, patting a spot on Coulson’s desk where Sam’s falcon will be right next to Clint’s hawk. A never ending feud was born from competitive predators. A feud Steve may never fully understand. “He’s baiting me!”

“He would never,” Steve laughs. “Have fun in the nest.”

“Man, fuck you, drinks on you later,” curses Sam, taking his things the two steps to Coulson’s desk, scowling at Clint as he sets up. “Steve’s buying drinks after work.”

“Bully,” Natasha cheers, saluting him with an imaginary glass. “With Wanda here, I might have someone who can keep up with me, since none of you drink like a man.”

“Some of us are content with a healthy liver,” Steve teases, while Clint makes a Soviet Russia joke involving vodka drinking Natasha which had Wanda laughing, clearly never heard a Soviet Russia joke before. Clint turns his aide off, again, with emphasis as Natasha shoots him a scathing retort. Steve looks to Wanda, offering a warm smile, scooting his chair just far enough to reach out his hand. “Hi, I’m Steve. Rogers. You can call me Steve.”

“We call him Captain America,” Sam adds. “Like the comic book.”

“Wanda,” she introduces herself. “It’s a pleasure, Captain.”  
H er voice is lilted with an accent; thick in contrast to Natasha’s non-existent accent.

“Where are you from?” he asks conversationally. “I heard you speaking Russian with Nat here, are you from Russia?”

“Sokovia,” she answers. “I moved to the United States when I was 10, with my brother Pietro, when the wars were starting to get horrible.”

Steve nodded, having heard many stories about the civil unrest in Sokovia that was leaving citizens dead, and the country in a rapid decline. He knew of a large community in Sheepshead Bay that was occupied primarily by Sokovian citizens; Natasha volunteered there regularly.

“I wanted to help people, so I joined the police, and here I am. In my country, I watched many children suffer, even my own brother had been threatened to be taken to help fight wars,” she told him. Natasha sat, unphased by this information, having had similar experiences during her youth. To the versa, Clint and Sam listened rapturously, fingers ideally bouncing their bobblehead birds. 

“Since Steve is being rude,” interrupted Natasha, moving from her desk to his, sitting atop the edge, crossing her right leg over her left. “Barnes, what’s your story? Russian?”

“Romanian,” he answered, sitting at his desk, having set up things to make it look more like he belongs. There was pictures taped up that Steve assumed he was holding in his pockets, given it’s wrinkled appearance; he made a point not to stare as to not invade Barnes’ privacy. “My mother’s father was Romanian. I’ve always had an aptitude for languages, so I took up Romanian and Russian when i was young, went on to German from there, took up Spanish, some Italian, and a bit of French on the side.”

“Who the hell has time to learn 6 languages?” Sam called over, leaning back to peer around Steve.

“Who the hell has time for recreational sky gliding?” Steve snarked, looking at Barnes who favored raising eyebrows. “I have German, myself. A little French, and a spot of Irish.”

Barnes’ eyebrows shot clean up, eyes narrowing on Steve. “You ask how I have time for six languages, but who the hell picks up Irish?”

“The who that has Irish immigrant parents,” Steve tells him, an edge of bite to his tone that would have a lesser man backing down like a cornered coyote; Barnes was not a lesser man. “Ma always thought it’d be fun for me to learn, so she taught me pieces here and there.”

“Yet, she couldn’t squash the Brooklyn outta you,” Barnes said with a wink, his own Brooklyn flare tainting his smooth candor, a drop of cayenne within his maple. That had Steve reeling internally, not having realized he’d slipped into his childhood accent. He did well with keeping it underwraps. Given Natasha was laughing behind her hand, his accent had come out full force, his emotions overpowering his conscious effort to repress it. “Nice to know I’m not the only Brooklyn man around.”

Steve goes to reply when suddenly a jar is shoved under his nose, courtesy of Natasha who shakes the rattling jar, label simply stating ‘Brooklyn’. “Really?”

“In the jar,” she tells him, shaking it again.

With a sigh, Steve digs out his wallet, pulling a dollar bill, shoving it into the jar. “We’ve got one for Natasha too,” Clint elaborates, catching the confused look on Barnes’ face. “Dollar for when the accent comes out at work. One time she got angry with a perp, her accent got so deep the guy thought she was mafia. Sang like a canary on the fourth of July, it was amazing.”

Barnes chuckled, a low rumble, deep in his chest, sounding wholly genuine while simultaneously sounding indulgent. As if he were a celebrity facing a barrage of press asking for the latest bite. Sam was watching Barnes, a literal falcon circling a pigeon waiting for it to turn a breast, while Barnes let Clint know he’d be wary of Natasha. He offered her a playful, confident wink, and Steve could swear he saw the faintest of flush pepper her cheeks; no man made Natasha Romanoff blush. She left them, but Steve knew she’d be back.

Barnes firmly on his side, Clint turned his attention back to Wanda, asking about her brother. Karen came by dropping a file on Steve’s desk, not passing up the opportunity to coquettishly flip her hair for Barnes. His eyes, however, were drawn to the file, his first case as Steve’s partner. Wanda peered over anxiously, head turned away from Clint’s chattering, likely wondering when Karen would be bring them a call. Steve took the folder, finding a grievance from the local call center, a nurse at an area high school had suspicions of student abuse. “Looks like a case that’s a dead-end,” Barnes said, frighteningly close to Steve’s ear; somehow having rounded their desks without a sound. Silent as a ghost.

An easily startled rookie might have shrieked.

“Why would you say that?”

Barnes scoffed, plucking the file from Steve’s hand. “15 year old male student with a 32 year old female teacher? I can already tell you how this is going to go.”

“And how is that?” Steve questioned, trying to keep edge from his voice. The silence that fell was deafening, indicating his friends belief that he was gearing for a fight. He had very strong opinions on sexual activities with minors. Specifically, adults should not be having sex with minors, especially when they were in a position of trust. If Barnes fed the ‘boys will be boys’ line, their partnership would end here, punctuated by Steve’s fist.

“Because, societal standards claim a male student having sex with a female teacher is the norm. ‘He’s a guy.’ Testerone. Which means, we can go in there, ask questions, but at the end of the day, no one is going to say this kid was raped. I can guarantee you, this kid’s parents aren’t going to paint their son as a victim. The kid’s friends? Probably going revere him as a hero. Unless there’s a consistent pattern of abuse we’re looking at the school board giving her a slap on the wrist, termination, and she’ll be back teaching in a different district by next monday,” Barnes says, leaning his weight against Stee’s desk, worrying a nail between his teeth.

Sam releases a breath, Clint goes back to grilling Wanda on every facet of her life, and Natasha whispers a crisis averted statement. Everything is said matter-of-factly. Which Steve appreciates, after all, this would not be the first time he hit an obstacle. His last case involved an 18 year old student who claimed he was in love. The boy’s parents villainized Steve for making their son look vulnerable; a victim. “Regardless, we still need to look into it,” Steve pointedly reminds. 

“I agree, we have to do our job. A lack of corroboration is gonna be an immediate wall. Any ADA worth their salt would push for 3rd degree rape, second even, if they could get past the grand jury. One spin on consent laws, a coerced recant, and a judge will dismiss before we see a courthouse.”

“You’re talking about Pierce,” Natasha chimed in, looking at a case file Karen had dropped by. “I’ve dealt with him before. He likes to play ‘14 is the magic number’. Sad thing is, nine out of ten times with a male victim, the defense works.”

“Let’s at least get down to the school, look into what we can,” Steve told him, standing from his chair. “I’m driving, you can make calls.”

“Fantastic, I live to be your secretary,” Barnes grumbles, following.

“Jerk,” Steve sighs, almost smiling when he hears Barnes reply with a ‘punk’.  
________

Johnson Academy is apparently one of the top schools in Manhattan, according to its array of plaques and trophies declaring academic achievements, achievements in proactive community involvement, an outstanding sports program, and even youth scholars. A near perfect SAT student beams from her frame, holding up her letter along with her cords that declare her Valedictorian. 

Steve continues his perusal of Johnson Academy’s accolades, motioning Barnes over when he spots a familiar name amongst pictures of teachers active in programs. The one in question is for the school’s Gay-Straight Alliance Initiative (as the placard beneath the picture reads) supervised by one Cynthia Applebaum, the accused in their current investigation. She’s a beautiful woman, dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, mixed heritage from what he can tell. She seems open and friendly as she poses with her students, all waving rainbow flags, dressed in LGBTQ related regalia. There’s a sickening weight in his stomach, settling like marble as he’s reminded of how many rapists actually appear this affable; trust was every criminal’s pocket rockets. So many people could be blinded by appearances; he knew better. The fact that she was beautiful made her even more dangerous. Society would turn a blind eye to the sins of the conventionally attractive. 

 

Steve has to look away, focusing on the four floors to the school. Someone is always about, students linger on the steps, staring at them as they type away at their phone, hanging around corners to snap quick candids. More than once, Steve hears an inquiry amongst truant students contemplating if Steve and Barnes are FBI, CIA, or MIB. Barnes does a rather impressive, deliberately gradual turn of his head, indicating he heard them, sending them scattering in seconds.

“Definitely MIB,” one of the male students declares. Steve has to try hard to hold in the laughter bubbling in his belly. He missed the vivid imagination of teenagers. 

“Mr. Rogers? Mr. Barnes?” a young woman asks, drawing their attention the red-haired woman in a white coat, the name ‘Dade’ stitched across the pocket. She introduces herself properly, shaking their hands firmly before beckoning them to her office. “The student in question is Thomas “Tommy” James. He’s a sophomore, and takes Ms. Applebaum’s third period history. He came to me last week with symptoms of mono, after I sent him home I noticed Ms. Applebaum exhibiting similar symptoms. I didn’t have any other students report to me. It’s likely they might not have come in, but when I gently asked him if he’d been ‘making out’ lately, he told me he’d done nothing wrong. It was strange to me how defensive he got, that’s when I called you, I thought it was better safe than sorry….” she told them, opening the door to the “sick room” where a young boy sat on a school issued bed, looking down at his lap, only briefly glancing up when they entered. “When I got your call I notified his parents and I--”

Steve raises a hand to politely cut her off, knowing how tenative most victims could be, startled like a hunted deer at the snapping of a twig. “Do you mind if we have the room?”

“Sure, I’ll just be outside,” she agreed, allowing them inside closing the door behind herself. Barnes immediately went for the chair, turning it around to straddle it backwards, resting on the back of it with his arms. Steve was about to berate him for his audacious display when the boy seemed to look up at him, as if Barnes was coolest adult he’d ever met.

“You’re name’s Thomas?”

“Tommy,” Tommy said, after Barnes said his name. “I hate Thomas, it sounds pretentious.”

Barnes laughed, nodding his head. “Trust me, I know. My parents saddled me with James Buchanan. ‘S why I go by Bucky.”

Tommy smiled, a radiant earnest display, running a hand through his shag of brown hair. “That’s kind of a dumb name too. You let people call you Bucky?”

“Sure as hell do. Only certain people get away with calling me James. Anyone call you Thomas?”

“My mom does, and my aunt Sylvia,” he shrugged.

“What about your teachers? They call you Thomas or Tommy?”

Tommy gave another shrug. “Depends. Mr. Thompson calls us whatever we want. Mr. Wexer has a nickname for everyone, I’m Red Robin. Ms. Applebaum and Mrs. Connors calls everyone by their given names because they believe in treating us like ‘young adults’.”

Steve watches this interaction with an emotion between disbelief and what he thinks is indigestion. Every time he and Sam had gone to question victims, Steve was always the smiling face, an open hand, a shoulder to cry on. Sam was the sentient watcher in the corner, imposing, frightening; the classic good cop, bad cop kind of dance. Steve had assumed, upon seeing Barnes, that their dynamic would work much the same. Steve would be friendly, Barnes would brood in the corner. Yet, here they were, with Barnes yucking it up with their potential victim, talking about their first stacks of hidden Playboys as if they were best buds. He was expertly pulling tidbits of information from the young man; intricately twining inquiries about Ms. Applebaum. Things that Steve was instantly storing. When Barnes glances back at him for affirmation of some ridiculous declaration Steve nods, confirming he’s catching everything the boy says, crossing his arms to appear aloof. 

The indigestion makes his stomach ache as he continues to watch the exchange. A rolling boil of his stomach into his liver, his kidneys, tangling up his intestines till all he feels is a need to empty his stomach. Only, there’s no climbing fear of actual vomit, or that rapid salivation that accompanies it. In fact, it distinctly feels like the nausea he felt when he met Peggy. How he’d been so sure he’d throw up all over her vintage 1940s heels. The feeling is hauntingly similar, terrifying in its familiarity, and he doesn’t know what’s brought it on.

Before he can speculate further, Tommy’s father is interrupting them, demanding to see their credential. Asking, with a number of expletives, who gave them permission to interview his under age kid. They try to explain the situation as delicately as possible, giving him the minimal outline of their suspicions, his son’s involvement, and what they plan to do if they decide to press charges. Steve can see Tommy looking ashamed, staring down at his hands again, as if he’s been caught; Barnes had done well with him, Steve could admit. “What the hell?!” his father exclaims. “He’s a 15 year old kid! Not a victim! Shit, if a teacher came to fuck me when I was his age you damn well believe I’d be having my pants off before she got her skirt off. This is some bullshit witch hunt, looking to line NYPD’s pockets or some shit! You ain't using my son to do it,” he says with finality, demanding Tommy come with him, giving the boy no choice but to leave with him, yanking his arm despite protests. Barnes makes an attempt to give his card to Tommy but the father isn’t having it, taking the card, shoving it back at Barnes.

They both know they’ve hit the wall, there’d be no moving forward with the victim’s father standing guard. Without a second victim they were stuck with nothing to do but wait. They make to leave, only for a girl to walk in, glancing over her shoulder as she does. She’s hugging her books to her chest, looking unnerved as she leans forward, whispering. “I couldn’t help overhearing...if you’re after Ms. Applebaum, I might be able to help.”  
________

“Wait, this girl was telling you she knows of at least three more victims,” Sharon repeated, holding her wine glass out for Steve to refill. He glanced at the oven timer, they still had ten minutes for the lasagna to finish, another five for the bread, leaving a bit more time to talk over the aspects of his job. It wasn’t great date talk, but Sharon seemed genuinely interested when Steve had told her he’d got a new partner. He sang Barnes’ praises, his ability to relate to their victim, conversing naturally as to offer consultation, prodding gently till Thomas felt comfortable enough to divulge his relationship with an unnamed older woman.

“I can’t tell you much more, with it being an ongoing investigation, but it’s looking serial, at the least. We’ve got an interview tomorrow morning, but you know the old world mentality of men not being victims.”

“Oh, I know,” agrees Sharon, taking a sip of her wine, staining her lips red. He can’t help but watch as she licks them clean before continuing. He can’t help noting the lack of nausea while looking at Sharon. Something is off, he thinks, when he distinctly remembers feeling ripples of nausea around Barnes, but not around the woman he’s dating. 

“We get that at the hospital too. Had this 20 something guy come in, tore up, bruised, battered, tells me his girlfriend had a bit too much to drink, right? So I call it in, and got the runaround and at least two cops who laughed and told me, verbatim, ‘his little girlfriend give him a boo-boo’ in the most condescending voice--

Either way, I happen to know someone who works with battered spouses, partners, etc. so I referred him, six months later he was out of the relationship and starting a new one with a girl he says is the love of his life. Actually came in the other day to thank me,” she told him, all smiles as she relayed the story. Sharon is a tenacious woman, passionate about her job, that makes Steve want to be as passionate about her. He loves their shared views on issues. She’s accepts that he’s a feminist, pro-love, pro-human rights in every walk of life. Sharon is astonished that he’s aware of his own privilege as a white male, and he makes strides in his job to take care of everyone, especially when there’s no one else to turn to. 

“I don't like bullies,” he ends up summarizing as he cuts lasagna to plate. “I don't like people who think they’re owed something for their lot in life. I don’t believe I’m morally superior just because I’m a detective, in the end we’re all human. We make mistakes. We’re prone to errors. I think it’s owning up to those ignorances, showing willingness to learn, showing compassion for humanity is what makes you a better person. Honestly, I don't think you can ever stop becoming a better person. When you think you’ve learnt it all is when you’ve gone wrong. No one should ever stop learning.”

He takes several breaths, telling himself to step down from the soapbox for a moment; remember he’s on a date. No date would like to hear his impassioned views on the world’s problems, or his massive grievance against local PDs that prioritized crimes based on race, sexuality, or other extenuating factors. It had taken a while for his friends to get use to his tangents--except for Sam, who eagerly contributes--but in front of a date? A woman he was trying to date? She’d be running for the hills in no time.

Naturally, nothing goes the way it does in his head, and Sharon is grinning. “I can’t believe men like you exist, it’s kind of astounding.”

“In a good way?”

“In a, if you hadn’t already gotten me in bed once you’d be getting me in bed tonight, way,” she teases, finishing off her wine, requesting water for the rest of the evening.

They eat lasagna together while talking about their opinions on immigration, the treatment of immigrants, Steve’s burning resentment for ICE, and how Sharon finds the process of citizenship so ridiculous. Steve can agree on all fronts given that his parents were both Irish immigrants, while Steve was a natural born citizen. His mother, of course, got her proper documents but didn’t receive actual US citizenship till almost 20 years of living in the country. “She lived here legally. That didn’t matter though, because it always felt like a door was getting closed somewhere.”

This opens the conversation to their families. Sarah is Steve’s only living parent--his father had passed before he was born--and currently resides in Brooklyn, where she gets regular visits from her one and only favorite son. Sharon is the youngest of two children. Her parents are Harrison and Amanda, wealthy Virginians who made sure their children wanted for nothing; she asked that he not hold that against her. They expect her to marry before thirty, were wanting grandchildren before 25, would probably disapprove of Steve, and she was pretty sure they were secret government spies looking for new ways to irritate her; she’s sure they have six marriage prospects lined up. “My annoyance with them is of utmost importance to the US government,” she said in jest.

Things with Sharon feel easy, Steve decides. There’s no earth shattering revelations like with Peggy, but there is a desire to know more about her. He’s not ready to stand on a cliff at dawn, yelling proclamations of love to Sharon anytime soon. There’s just an ease to their conversation that feels like it does with Natasha,easy, like old friends. Only, there’s an element of lust in there that he most certainly doesn’t feel with Natasha--if Natasha heard that, she’d have his guts for garters. He wants more dates with Sharon, eagerly agreeing when she suggests they try for lunch later in the week if schedules allow. She gives him her phone number and they both agree they won’t be having sex after lasagna, despite the accord telling them they both want it. 

Sharon asks to borrow his washer tomorrow night--she’s low on quarters--he agrees, and their date ends. Steve is left, satisfied, content, despite the lack of fireworks. There’s no thrill of wonderment firing up his spine like when Peggy had taken him dancing at a 40s style club. There’s no giggling, or laughing as he stomps her toes, or apologies over scotch that burns on the way down. This feels easy. A comfortable rapport that encases him like freshly laundered sheets, keeping him warm on a cool winter’s night. He wants to discuss this with Peggy, always his best girl, and his great confidant. 

Not many people can stay best friends with their exes, Steve Rogers is not such a person. Even though neither of them can pinpoint when they fell out of love, the fact remained they never stopped loving each other. There was just something about their relationship that did not click, no matter how many conversations they had about a different time or a different place. Even if the beginning was nothing but a whirlwind, sweeping them away to an oasis of their creation. Enraptured in a gossamer of their emotions. Eventually, the sun faded, and with it the suffocating throes of a ardent first love.

Over the phone, Peggy reminds him that their relationship was all that and more; the startling shock of a handful of pop rocks. She agreed with his assessment, equating it to a poker player showing his hand early, she loved that passion, loved how great it felt to fall head first into a pool of love, let herself experience vulnerability for once. It allowed her the ability to open herself up to the man who would become her husband, the father of her children, her greatest accomplishments, she felt. “This could be yours, Steve. You have to give it time to blossom. If you’re waiting for something like we had, you may never date again,” she jokes with ease that came from knowing Steve intimately. “You’re such a romantic. Always waiting for that cosmic serendipity.” 

He winces. “I know.”

He’s still concerned that it's too easy, to relaxed. However, he’s going to make an earnest go of it, promising to keep Peggy updated.

“Don’t forget I’ll still be there for Christmas,” she reminds before they end their call. He holds his phone to his chest, thinking Christmas can’t come fast enough.  
________

Bucky Barnes, Steve decides, is a damned angel sent from God. That revelation may have everything to do with the venti coffee and blueberry yogurt muffin sporting the Starbucks brand that he presents Steve the morning of their interview. Barnes is sipping his own warm drink, eating a ham and cheese croissant as they sit in Holland Tunnel traffic bound for Newark; 78 was going to be a nightmare. “How was your date?” Barnes starts conversationally, ignoring the angry New Yorker who cuts him off with a wave of his finger.

“Okay. I actually ended up on the phone with my ex last night. Before you ask, we ended on good terms, we’re still good friends,” Steve told him, cutting off the judgement before it started. “The girl I’m seeing, Sharon, it feels easy. We have similar opinions on social issues, sex was good, it just feels easy.” Steve, under normal circumstances, probably wouldn’t be this open, but he found himself seeking constant reassurance that a relationship could be this easy.

“Probably because you had sex with her on the first date?” Barnes offers, adding a ‘Natasha talks’ at the end before Steve could ask how he knew that.

“That’s not it. The relationship doesn’t feel purely carnal, I’m not a casual sex kind of guy, ya know? It’s just, with my first girlfriend, Peggy, she was super swell. I met her when I was just coming out of high school. I was this lanky gangly thing, had so many health problems,” instinctually, he found his fingers reaching to toy with his hearing aide, a constant reminder that not everything was fixed with puberty. “ Got stuck with awkward puberty that left me thin, pimply and tiny, yet, she still dealt with me. I mean, I immediately thought, wow, why is a girl like this talking to me...we just clicked. She was my first everything. First kiss, first time, first love, it was so rapid fire. I remember feeling something new with her everyday like a constantly flipping hourglass. The sand kept coming, until one day there was no sand left,” he told him, staring out the window to avoid looking at Barnes. He needed to talk this out, yet a voice continously questioned why he was confinding in Barnes.

Barnes shrugged, glaring as another driver refused to let him over to exit. “Sounds like a first love to me. Not that I have experience in that, I’ve always been a one night lover kind of guy, never really believed in love.”

“Why not?” Steve questioned, giving him the all clear when a van waved them over.

“Never found someone that made me want to stay more than a night. After I enlisted at 18, I just flitted about on leave. Never really met anyone that made me feel I have someone waiting for me. Sounds like you’re fixated on your emotions with peggy. When it falls short you wonder why,” he said, eating bits of his croissant now they were safely in the exit lane, an endeavour he abandoned momentarily in a bid to not have them killed. 

“Peggy said something similar. She told me to give it a chance. Put the kindling in the fire and let it grow. I just, always thought...I guess I always believed in soulmates. Like, you have that moment in the movies where you bump into someone at Barnes and Nobles, your eyes meet, and you know. A mis-dialed phone number, that ends in camaraderie. Something cliche.”

“That is cliche. I may not believe in love, for me, but I’ve seen it; sometimes you gotta work at it. My parents, my sister, life isn’t a Hallmark movie. You like this Sharon? Then give her a chance, love doesn’t just fall into your lap, Rogers,” Barnes advised, rolling down his window to yell at a car that failed to yield, almost clipping them in the process. “Dick.”

“Why don’t you believe in love?” Steve asks, wondering if Barnes recognized the redundancy in his questioning. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I said I don't believe in love for me. I’ve never met someone that can get my heart racing. The one instant I did, she went off and slept with my best friend at the time. I mean, I guess love is real for some people, but I don’t believe it's in my cards. Fuck me if someone comes along and proves me wrong,” he answers, eyes checking his mirrors as he switches lanes. “Just hasn’t happened in 30 years.”

“Who knows, one day you could be walking down the road and BAM!” Steve told him, accentuating with a clap of his hands. Barnes peered at him from his peripherals, lowering his gaze from Steve’s eyes to his hands.

“I get hit by a bus?”

Steve laughed, holding his stomach as he doubled over. “Or,” he gasped, trying to right himself, wiping away a tear. “You meet the right person, and you don’t realize because you’re not open to seeing it.”

“Kind of like you and Sharon? She could be your bus, but you’re to preoccupied looking for a black taxi in a endless sea of yellow. Now, if you’re done circular talking me….”

Steve beamed. Barnes had caught him red-handed using a tactic normally reserved for his more taciturn victims, reluctant to speak. Steve had once used it against Natasha, catching her in a lie about her in time in the academy; it didn’t work a second time. Barnes would likely refuse to open up again, opting for silence if Steve posed more inquiries, and by the look on his face as he re-evaluated the conversation he had just done just that. “You little punk,” he groused.

His grin grew to solar radiance. “Jerk.”

At the very least, his conundrum with Sharon felt resolved. He was determined to give her every chance he had to give. Steve wouldn’t be missing his bus.  
______

When they arrived at the small Forest Hills home, it isn’t Cassidy Milson that answers the door, but his spouse--a slight blonde man, mousy, that painfully reminds Steve of his youth--who ushers them inside with an offer of tea. Cassidy comes through the door behind them, carrying groceries, a look over his freckled face that clearly says he can’t believe they showed up. He verbally confirms that, handing off the groceries to his spouse before closing the door, offering to make themselves comfortable. “I just..when I got the call I thought..but here you are,” he fumbles, sitting down in an green arm chair, motioning to the couch opposite. They both accept the offer, sitting, giving the man their undivided attention. Cassidy Milson is a bundle of nerves, all twisting red hair, darting green eyes, as if he’s expecting someone to yell ‘April Fools’; Steve can tell the man has been waiting entirely to long for this day. “Is there even anything I can help with? After this long? It’s been...4, almost 5 years?”

Barnes bluntly tells the man. “We’re cutting it close. As long as we are able to get a statement and charge her before May, we’re under the stature and she can go to jail.”

“We got your name from your sister, Ashley, she told us about your case, how no one believed you?” Steve said, gently, coaxing. “You filed a police report?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassidy nodded, twisting his black t-shirt between his hands. “I was almost 15 at the time. When I came forward everyone thought I made it up, or that I was some queer who didn’t want to dick an older lady. I mean, I am queer,” he laughed apprehensively, moving from his shirt to his hair. “But there’s no correlation between my rape and my sexuality, I mean...God, I don't know what I mean…”

“I know this might be difficult, but can you walk us through what happened? How did the situation come around the way it did?” Steve asked, glancing at Cassidy’s husband who hovered in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen. When Cassidy noticed, he beckoned the other man over, offering to share the arm chair, likely to use him as his anchor.

“Ms. Applebaum, she’s really nice. That’s the easiest way to put it. She works hard with every student. Gives them one on one time when they need it. I actually use to stay after class with her most days just to get help with the assignment and she never once made a pass at me, so I mean, it was terrifying when she did. I was frozen, like I couldn’t think or breath. Like I was trying to wake myself from a dream. The cops told me I couldn’t have been raped if I orgasmed, and I did...every time she did it..”

“It’s a reaction to stimulus,” Barnes supplied. “Almost half the people in your position also experience orgasm through something like that. It has nothing to do with you, it's just your body’s natural response to stimulus. It can also have a lot to do with your mindset, the body is more likely to succumb to arousal if you, in easy terms, surrender to what is being done as opposed to fighting. That doesn’t change the nature of the act.”

“I did..relax, I mean. I didn’t know what else to do. See, Ms. Applebaum works with Johnson’s GSA, and I thought I could talk to her about my problems, or what I thought were problems at the time. I was a kid who was starting to realize I was looking at the captain of the football team a lot, and not in the ‘I wish I could be him’ sense. Growing up in a church family the idea of homosexuality was never really brought up til I started wondering if I was gay. I took my concerns to Ms. Applebaum, and she listened, the first time. The second time she told me, ‘are you absolutely sure you’re not confused?’ and I will remember that till the day I die because she was wearing a dark burgundy colored lipstick; Ms. Applebaum never wore dark colors, that day she did.” Cassidy’s husband tightened his grip on Cassidy’s hand, holding him firm. “After that she told me I just needed to experience what a woman’s body was like. At first she just had me caress her breast, and then….it got...worse. She made me touch her more intimately and I just….I went along with it, I didn’t know...and she just kept asking me ‘are you absolutely sure you’re not confused?’ every time….every damn time…”

Steve made a move to comfort when he caught sight of Barnes, tissue already in hand, holding them out to the man as he sobbed against his husband’s offered arm. “None of that is your fault,” Barnes said, just above a whisper. “None of it, and I know this is hard, but if you’re willing to tell this all to a judge, we can bring the charges against her.”

“What does that mean? What does that get her,” the husband asked, running his fingers through Cassidy’s hair.

“Depends. The max is 7 years for second degree. If we can find more victims willing to disclose…”

“There might be one,” Cassidy said through a sniffle. “When I got laughed out of Johnson..I got a call..from Veronica Eckleston...all she said was ‘I believe you’ and hung up, but I think she might know too…”  
_________

 

“Your job is absolutely insane,” Sharon concluded, pulling her bare feet up onto Steve’s couch as he sat next to her. “Here I was thinking the ER was messy, but being a cop, in sex crimes? That is a whole different level..”

“Hey, no job is harder than the other, we just have different areas of expertise,” he told her, having relayed his latest case of a 12 year old holding up a convenience store for money to buy an XBOX because his mom wouldn’t pay for it; a respite in the madness that was the Applebaum case. After leaving Cassidy’s place they contacted Maria Hill, their assistant district attorney, for the arrest warrant which they couldn’t get till Monday. She had already ran into two judges who refused to issue one on the basis of Christmas being just a week away. Another refused to issue a warrant, claiming the case was a ‘he said, she said’, after Clint’s interview with Applebaum. Naturally, the woman acted flabbergasted, as if she couldn’t believe the allegations against her. Clint confessed to them that she was a convincing actress. Enough so that a rookie cop would have turned away without a second thought.

Barnes had attempted to contact Veronica but the girl refused to talk till after the holidays, refusing to ruin her family cruise to Barbados with ‘shit that might not have happened’; her words. Fury pushed through with adding the second charge of second degree rape for Thomas on the grounds that he was under the age of 17, whether he testified or not to the charge was of little consequence in his opinion. Each charge would carry the weight of maximum prison time requested, and if they could get Veronica on board, Ms. Applebaum would be looking at a minimum of 21 years behind bars. 

It was a hectic time before he’d be escaping to Brooklyn for Christmas with his mother--unfortunately Peggy had to cancel when her son came down with a nasty cold. He hadn’t invited Sharon, given they’d only been dating two weeks now, and she seemed to have plans in Richmond with her parents. Once holiday plans were casually discussed, the conversation turned to Barnes, and Steve’s high opinion of him as a detective. He didn’t know his feelings on him as a person, beyond the man being more guarded than Buckingham Palace, willing to let miniscule pieces of himself out at a time. Apparently Steve did this too, according to Sharon. That segued, somehow, to Steve’s bedroom where they indulged in a rather slow session of sex that had Sharon hitting his back more than once in annoyance.

After all was said and done, he admitted to keeping his barriers up to which Sharon stared at him as if he had stated the sky was blue. His hand moved ideally over her bare shoulder as he confessed to wanting this relationship, wanting to make it work as something more than friendship, more than just casual sex; if she was willing to deal with him, that was. “Does that officially make me your girlfriend? Do I get to wear your letterman jacket?” she needled.

“It means I’m going to try, even if I close off without meaning too, I’m going to try. I like you, Sharon Carter.”

“Funny. I like you, too, Steve Rogers.”  
______

There’s a thousand and one things Steve can say he’s come to expect going to his mom’s home for Christmas. There’s usually a gift exchange, before they take a walk to visit his father, and leave him flowers--they had left gifts the first couple years, however, they usually ended up stolen--followed by a ham dinner. They’ll watch whatever Christmas movies on TV, usually Rudolph or the 24 hour marathon of a Christmas Story. They’ll sit by the Christmas tree and sip hot cocoa while they talk about their favorite christmas’. Occasionally, Steve will wear ridiculous Santa socks to delight his mom, make her giggle, and brighten her day. All this he’s grown accustomed to. Walking up to his mom’s new friend’s brownstone only to find Bucky Barnes standing in the doorway wearing a hideous Christmas throws his world through a loop.

Barnes appears as confused to as Steve is. Steve had tagged along when his mom declared she had made a friend when she attempted to play Bingo; her sister had suggested playing. That friend invited his mom over for a Christmas dinner, wanting to include her in a much larger family gathering, promising games and festivities; more the merrier. His mom had jumped at the idea, promptly dragging Steve the few blocks to her new friend, Winifred’s home where they knocked, only to find James Buchanan Barnes, aka the man Steve currently spent practically every day with. 

“Sarah? Sarah! Come in,” Steve assumes it’s Winifred that appears in Barnes’ shadow, bumping him aside with her hip as she reaches out to take the tin of treats his mom had baked. Winifred Barnes is a small woman, around his mother’s own size, with equally blonde hair, and bright green eyes. He had to look several times between Barnes and his mother, trying to find some kind of connection, deciding the man must take after his father. Confirmed when George Barnes comes from the kitchen, all smiles and warm greetings, a twin to his son who stands there awkwardly moving his weight from foot to foot. “This is our oldest, James,” Winifred introduces, after the introducing her husband. “Our eldest daughter, Rebecca, is that beauty on the couch, holding our grandson. Amy is our third, she’s up in her room, going through that ‘too cool for Christmas’ teenage phase, and our youngest, Christine, is running around here somewhere. I’m sure she’ll pop up.”

“This is my boy, Steve,” his mom declares proudly, forcefully pulling him forward. “I think you were right, Freddie, our boys are the same age.”

“I told you,” she titters. “You two should get to know each other!”

“No need,” Barnes says, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. “Rogers is my new work-spouse, I’m with him everyday.”

His mom and Winifred look between them, clapping their hands in delight, cheering at what a small world they lived in, still encouraging the boys to have eggnog, talk outside of work like normal functioning adults.

“‘Fraid that’s a lost cause, ‘ma. Bucky hasn’t been functioning since he was five,” Rebecca teased, moving her son to her clothed shoulder to burp him. “Steve is it?” she asked, as he came over to sit on one of the Barnes’ many empty chairs. “I’m Rebecca. This one burp wonder on my shoulder is Alex. If you see a 3 year old running around without pants on that’s mine too, her name is Sammy.”

“Nice to meet you,” he smiles, watching as Barnes offers to take his nephew off Rebecca’s hands to allow her to grab a drink. She threatens him with death if he drops her baby, then hurries off with a comment about that ‘crap smell’ being from Barnes not Alex. Barnes throws a pink lego at her as she laughs her way to the kitchen, her voice traveling as she greets her mother, looking for something non-alcoholic.

“She’s annoying, but harmless,” Barnes offers in way of explanation, his arms bouncing his nephew, his voice whispering little nonsensical diddies to the baby, all the while the boy cooed back, reaching for Barnes’ face. It’s painfully domestic. Steve had always spent Christmas with his mom in their apartment where they hung stockings on the mantle, decorated their christmas tree in assorted colors, ornaments or knick-knacks they collected over the year. The Barnes family seems all about nativity scenes on their mantel with a garland sprawled underneath, accenting the decorative stockings beneath, each bearing the family’s names in embroidered gold thread. Their christmas tree brushed their ceiling, expertly decorated in gold and white with a couple presents left under the tree, probably not left by Santa. Homely, is the only word he can think.

“You ever want kids?” Steve asks, watching as Bucky plays ‘got your nose’ with Alex who seems more confused than anything.

“Maybe? Don’t know. I mean, kids are okay, but I kind of like giving them back at the end of the day,” he answered, tapping Alex’s nose. “Isn’t that right, Alex? You don’t wanna stay with mean old Uncle Bucky, right?”

“Someone that cries more than Alex does? You’d drive each other insane,” Rebecca said, offering Bucky an eggnog in exchange for her child back. “He needs to go down for his nap, too much excitement and it’s barely noon.” She left them to it, heading up a picture lined staircase, stopping at a door to yell at Amy to go downstairs and be sociable. Steve chuckles, turning his attention back to Bucky--Barnes, he corrects-- who gives a shrug.

“That’s my sister for you, she’s a ball buster.”

“She likes you,” Steve observes, looks back to the stairwell when a door opens then slams followed by an unintelligible shout. 

“We’re close, always have been. Sniping at each other is just our way of showing love, like ugly Christmas sweaters she bought me. I wear them because it makes her laugh,” he tells Steve, pulling at the green monstrosity. Now that Steve has a chance to look he can see the reindeer pattern, running under a group of bells. A truly horrifying Santa is the centerpiece, complete with too red cheeks, far too much nose, and 3D cotton for his hat. Steve nods, raising his leg, pulling up the hem of his jeans to show the snowman printed socks he wore that day in honor his own gift to his mom.

“Mom gets me socks every year, last year it was socks with that leg lamp from A Christmas Story, the year before that she got me Grinch printed socks.”

Barnes shakes his head, taking a gulp of his eggnog. “Things you do for family, amiright?”

Steve concurs. “Speaking of dorky outfits, do you have any plans for New Years?”

“Other than try to sleep while New York explodes? No.”

“Well, Nat is planning to drag all of us to Times Square for the ball drop, if you want to join. It’ll be Sam, myself, and Clint for sure. Probably Wanda too, maybe Coulson if they can drag him out. She makes us wear hats, sunglasses, scarves, she got Sam to wear a tinsel wig last year. People get smashed, people kiss, it’s a mess, but it’s fun,” he offers. “Sometimes we get called for some kid shooting his friends with roman candles…”

“Sounds like a hectic night.”

“It is. Figure if you’re sticking around, might as well get initiated into the club?”

“Might as well,” Barnes laughs. “You know what? You’re on.”

Plans set in stone, dinner comes soon after, with a flurry of newcomers Steve hadn’t met; the most audacious being Barnes’ teenage sister, Amy, who asks if Steve is her Christmas present. Christine, the youngest, demands that she get Steve, and Sammy, Barnes’ niece, dressed as Elsa, jumps Barnes; she declares that Bucky is her prince. He spends the rest of the evening with a child’s tiara on his head. Steve grins so bright that Barnes resorts to throwing cookies at him till it falls away; only widening the expression to cheshire proportions. At one point, Sammy abandons Barnes, clambering into Steve’s lap, immediately going for his hearing aide. Rebecca admonished her, telling her it wasn’t polite to point, and grab things that didn’t belong to her. Steve told her it was alright, explaining to Sammy what it was, and why he wore it. Sammy proceeded to shout things into his ear, testing the validity of his words.

By the end of the night, Steve finds himself wanting more; this family dynamic. He likes discussing baseball with Rebecca’s husband, Ben--who also happens to be a Dodgers fan, despite the fact they’re traitors--and playing dress up with Sammy. He laughs when Christine asked him to marry her, making him promise he’ll wait for her to turn 21 in 10 years. He gently reminds her that he’d be nearing 40 by then; she seems undeterred by that. His mom made a compromise, somewhat, in form of offering his hand to Barnes, so at the very least Steve could be married into the family. That led to all three Barnes girls groaning in dismay, all in agreement that Steve was well out of Barnes’ league. “Besides, I could be dating someone, Ma,” Steve tried to placate his mother; she waved him off. Barnes was even worse, as he encouraged her, deciding they’d have a spring wedding, with tulips not roses; he detested roses.

“Steve will have to wear white, of course. He’s pure,” Barnes teases, his lips quirking in his signature smirk every time he adds a detail to their non-existent wedding. Elsewhere in New York, Steve could just imagine Sam and Nat laughing their heads off at the absurdity of the scenario; luckily they would never find out.

Before the balloon in his chest can pop, Winifred and his mother are making plans for Easter, insuring Steve would get to experience the chaos of family holiday again. They’ll go to morning service at St. Paul’s, followed by an egg hunt in the park, and a dinner that’ll pack a few more inches to Steve’s waistline. Rebecca makes a comment about her mother being blind, because Steve is all muscle, which leads to her husband making a joke about feeling inadequate next to Steve. It’s all so wonderful, natural, that he’s sad to leave at the end of the night. But leave they do, with promises to keep in-touch. Especially now that Steve is Barnes’ work wife; Rebecca’s words, not his own.  
_____

Crime refuses to take a rest, even on Christmas, indicated by the file thrust into his hands the moment he walks into the precinct. Natasha’s grousing about people who murder during the holidays, while filling out paperwork that Steve catches saying ‘Jane Doe, age 3’, his stomach drops out of his ass. No matter how many years he’s at his job, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get use to the idea that people can murder children; it’s abhorrent.

His sanity is spared from murder when he opens the file to see the picture of a 14 year old girl with a ‘missing’ tag under her picture. Before relief began, it was over, taking in the information that said she went missing Christmas Day, and hadn’t been seen since. Experience told him someone missing over 48 hours was likely to not be found, or, at the very least they’d be looking for a body. “Wait, this says the mom filed the report this morning. Someone would have been on duty the weekend,” he tells Natasha, re-reading the file, praying that the information was miswritten, looking for something that said she had attempted to make the report but was given the ‘48 hour run around’ that most police give the primary of missing person cases. 

He hates having such a good holiday only to come back to the reminder that evil never sleeps.  
______

“I’m telling you Star Wars is far superior to Star Trek, Rogers, you need to accept that!”

Steve looked up at his ceiling, wondering how a discussion of leaning on Eckleston for her statement had turned into a debate on the Sci-Fi genre. He had been on the phone with Sharon when Barnes had interrupted. Unfortunately, her aunt was having health issues so she would be in Richmond till after the New Year, which he confessed was awful given that he had been hoping to kiss the new year in with her. She promised to try to make it back by the 31st but her aunt was having to get an PET on a mass near her spine. The woman, apparently, didn’t trust doctors, only agreeing to it if Sharon was with her. It took some wiggling, along with a couple of bribes to get the doctors to agree to allow Sharon to hold her aunt’s hand through the process. She said they could go skating in Rockefeller Center when she got back, they’d make a date of it, and if Steve wanted they could DVR the ball dropping and watch it together—if she couldn’t make it back in time, but she was really going to try. She was in the midst of talking about the latest drama with her parent’s HOA when Barnes called. Steve apologized, citing work, and promised to call her back.

That had been over an hour ago. What had started as a discussion on how to relax Veronica Eckleston into speaking against Ms. Applebaum had led to a discussion on tactics Sherlock Holmes would use to get information, which led to something Dr. Who related that Steve didn’t understand since he’d never got into the show. Dr. Who led to a discussion on what Steve had seen in the Sci-Fi genre. He confessed to watch Sharknado due to Sam wanting to play a Sharknado drinking game. He’d seen the full Star Wars saga, preferred the original three—he elaborated saying that was episode 4,5 and 6–to which Barnes agreed, going on to point out holes in the pre-canon that didn’t make sense when it lined up with the original New Hope, even though the writers tried to connect it.

By the time he hung up after the fifth yawn it was well past midnight. They ended up agreeing Bewitched’s movie was a nightmare, Addams Family was a gift in every incarnation, and Dark Shadows was something everyone needed to experience once; Natasha had been responsible for Dark Shadows. “Natasha refuses to let me watch the Johnny Depp Dark Shadows.”

“Smart woman,” Barnes said through a yawn. Steve can hear the creak of a bed as he likely re-situates himself. “The show was so great, in that corny soap opera way. I regret spending money to see the movie. Though, I confess I liked that remake of the Munsters they did, Mockingbird Lane? I was curious to see where they’d go with it.”

After that, when Steve reminded Barnes about their witness he shrugged it off with a, “We’ll go by her dorm tomorrow.” 

It was a maddening evening; not unpleasant.

Before he fell asleep he had the distant thought that he never did call Sharon back.  
_____

“Eckleston cracked,” Barnes informed the room, using a magnetic to place Veronica’s picture on the board.“Same story Cassidy gave us. Burgundy lipstick, questioning sexuality, that same question about questioning her sexuality. The nature of Eckleston’s attack was a bit more brutal, but I don’t think any judge would push a first degree rape case on someone like Cynthia Applebaum.”

“Where are we with other victims?” Fury asked, looking over the board that showed the pictures of Thomas, Veronica, and Cassidy, their three known victims.

“Veronica gave us the name of another victim that she knows, a football star for NYU, Michael. We tried giving him a call, hung up before we could get more than Applebaum out, as if he knew our call was coming,” Steve told him. “Veronica alluded to at least five more victims. She claimed that during her attack she noticed the charm bracelet Applebaum wore had gained a charm, a paint brush. Veronica didn’t think much of it at first, then started wondering if their charms were trophies, she’d get a new one with each new victim. There was a football that she believes was Michael. She remembered a basketball, a figure skate, and a baseball charm off the top of her head.”

“Cassidy had pictures at basketball games on his mantel, it’s possible the basketball was his.”

“Romanoff,” Fury called, Natasha hopping to her feet, with a mock salute. “Go down to evidence, see if the bracelet is in Applebaum’s effects. The woman posted bail just before Christmas Eve, but never came to collect.”

Natasha gave another salute, hurriedly walking off to take the stairs to their basement holdings.

“She may think she’s getting away with this, given that Tommy’s father refuses to let him talk,” Steve reiterated. “If LGBT kids is her victimology, I doubt Tommy’s father is going to accept his son is questioning his sexuality. Her MO could build walls with victims that are scared or their parents will fight against having their child acknowledged as homosexual.”

“I can’t condone outing anyone,” Barnes interjected. “There’s just no way to present this case, is there? She’s going after kids who believe they may be gay hoping they’re to frightened to speak up, it’s almost foolproof.”

“Guys,” Natasha’s voice sounded, dead in a way that said they weren’t going to like what she found; her “perp voice”, Clint dubbed it. They turned to look at her, a silver charm bracelet dangled from her finger, lined with 20 individual nickel charms.

“Dear god….”  
_____

They make a National plea that afternoon, with Maria at the helm, beseechingly calling for any victims of Cynthia Applebaum to come forward so that she may pay for the crime she’s committed. She openly tells the press that police believe there is up to 15 unnamed victims that had fallen into her trap.Maria says the woman’s full name each time, over and over, drilling it into the minds of America as she makes a call for action. A call to wake up, to see this woman for the predator she is. This wasn’t the act of a woman trying to recapture her youth. This wasn’t a teen boy living out a fantasy despite twitter claims. This was a cold calculated, systematic attack against minor victims; children in her care. Not just physically, or sexually, but mentally, and that was the worst crime of all. It’s stated eloquently making Steve glad Maria had been the one to make the speech. Steve doesn’t think he’d be capable of saying it so calmly without throwing his own opinion on how despicable the act was.

They only receive two calls from additional victims—both who are close to reaching the statute of limitations—by the time they’re pouring out into the streets of Times Square with the rest of New York City, all doning ridiculously large 2018 sunglasses. Natasha throws leis about their necks, declaring they’ve officially been lei’d; Steve thinks she’s hit the celebratory vodka early. Natasha tries to get him to dance to Beyoncé, but his mind is on the case, stuck wondering if Cynthia Applebaum will see justice. Wondering how someone could rape 20 kids while presenting an angelic face to the world as if she weren’t a monster. It bothered him. It bothered him in the very core of his being.

“Hey, try not to look so sour, there’s nothing we can do tonight,” Barnes shouted over the music.

“I just...can’t stop thinking about it,” Steve admits. Cases have haunted him before, he knows how it goes, he knows he won’t be forgetting these kids ever. This case is getting to him, and he hates that he’s allowing it to. “To use the trust someone puts in you…”

“It’s vile,” Barnes agrees, still shouting over the pounding music, moving closer to Steve. “That’s the nature of our job, Rogers. Steve,” he corrects, looking around, eyes falling on Wanda and Natasha, dancing in circles, holding each other’s hands. Wanda’s brother, Pietro, is standing next to Sam, bouncing along to the music, resisting the urge to follow the flow of people around him. Sam, Steve knows, needs at least one more beer before he’s willing to jump in the fray of dancing maniacs. “The most we can do is wait, do our part, and make sure this woman gets what’s comin’ to her.”

“You’re right. Of course you’re right,” he sighs, running his fingers through his bangs, regaining balance as a drunken partier falls into him, rebounding to jump around to Shake it Off as it begins to blare through the square. Steve makes a go towards the sidewalk, aiming for one of the many open bars, when Barnes grabs his hand, pulling him back towards Wanda and Natasha. Both women immediately converge on him, hopping up and down, weaving side to side as they sing along to the song. Barnes is urging him to join in, and Steve has to force down the smile watching the grown man shake his shoulders to Taylor Swift. Sam declares he’s not drunk enough for this, swearing he’ll return with enough beers to drown out memories of this by morning. Another dance song follows Taylor Swift, and the girls dance on, now with Barnes in their midst, who is probably used to being used as a dance buddy given his three sisters. 

Steve’s phone vibrates with a text from Sharon hoping he's having fun, to which he replies it's loud. “Natasha and Wanda might end up in a dance off,” he adds, to which Sharon replies with an ‘lol’.

“Watching Dick Clark with mom and dad, seems like it’s crazy there,” she texts back a moment later.

“Loud,” he types again. He turns his phone to the dancing trio, taking a quick video before sending it off to Sharon who replies with a number of thumbs up.

“Wish I could have been there with you. My Aunt is still convinced the doctors are making up illnesses to get money from her.”

“A master plan,” Steve tells her. “How’s she doing?”

“Okay. She doesn’t believe the tumor on his spine is cancer. They’re doing a biopsy on the 1st to confirm stage. We’ll go from there.

Mom is glad I stayed, she’s been a bit of a mess. I’m trying to tell her cancer isn’t a death sentence, we won’t know till we get the biopsy results.”

“I get her anxiety. I was the same way when mom was diagnosed. Thought that was the end and I was going to lose her,” Steve confesses, accepting the beer from Sam as he came back, shaking his head as Natasha took to grinding up on Barnes as some faintly familiar Justin Timberlake song played.

“??? You never told me your mom was a cancer survivor,” Sharon texts back, and Steve thinks they’ve only been dating for a month, he hadn’t really touched on his mom to much yet.

“Yeah, breast cancer. Spent most of my teen years in chemo hospitals. Tell you what, when you get back we’ll have this conversation in person.”

“It’s a date. Now go have fun, please? For me? Allow me to live vicariously through you?”

He sends back a smiley emoji with a, “Sure thing.”

“Sharon says I need to have fun,” he tells Sam, pocketing his cell phone.

Sam is still adamantly in the ‘no dance’ zone. “Have at it man, need to be a teensy bit more drunk.”

Steve chuckles, waving a finger at Sam to show that if Steve is making an ass of himself then he has to as well. He doesn’t recognize the song playing now, but he hears something about animals, which prompts a lot of grinding from nearby couples. Natasha seems to catch on that he’s over to dance, turning to him with a mischievous gleam, her hands forming claw shapes, running up his chest. “Sharon make you dance?”

“Told me I need to have fun,” he supplies, shifting from foot to foot; he is a notoriously bad dancer. 

“You’re a shit dancer!” Barnes yells.

“Says the human stripper pole.”

“At least one of us is getting action tonight!”

“Jerk!”

“Punk!”

As if to spite Steve, Barnes whispers to Wanda briefly before spinning the girl out by her hand, pulling her into a dip that’s damn impressive. He’s a show-off, and knows it as he steps into a complex dance sequence, dancing his way around the square with Wanda who follows his lead, all the while giggling. Natasha is staring up at him with her eyebrow raised. “I can’t do that if you think I have secret dancing talent.”

“Not what I was thinking at all,” she says. The scary thing is, she’s using the tone known to stop a serial killer in their tracks. The voice that says she’s absolutely telling the truth; affectionately, her KGB voice.

“Am I late?!” Clint yells, rushing over to them, his wife, Laura, trailing behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other waving in the air. “Got mom to babysit for the night so now we’re free!”

“Mommies and daddies need vacations too!” Laura declares, turning Clint to face her, grabbing his hips to force him to dance. Natasha chortles, begging Clint to save a dance for her.

Dancing breakdowns into something more akin to what Steve imagined an orgy is like. They’re a mass of bodies, pushed together tighter and tighter as more New Yorkers flood the streets, waiting for the ball to drop into the new year. At one point, Steve isn’t sure who is dancing with who. Sam has become intoxicated enough to join, putting his arms firmly around Natasha, while their Russian co-worker describes methods of killing a man in her native tongue, translated helpfully by Pietro who is laughing hysterically, mainly involved because Wanda had been groped earlier; he wasn’t having it a second time. Laura makes at least one pass at Steve to make Clint jealous, who exclaims, “Come on, man!” 

Steve is pretty sure Barnes is dancing against him--Imagine Dragons is playing to Clint’s immense excitement--back to Steve’s chest. Before he can confirm it, Wanda is tripping into Barnes, shrieking in joy as a song she loves comes on, and she begins wailing it at the top of her lungs; it’s probably the most endearing thing Steve’s seen all night. Though, he pities the pain she’ll be in come morning.

Soon the shouts turn to excited hollers as the countdown clock descends to its last 30 seconds. The frantic grinding dance has screeched to a stop, people shuffle closer to get nearer the ball as the seconds tick away, shimmering ball of lights inching downwards with each count.

10...9..8...7...6...5...4..3...2...1..

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

Steve has to cover his ears--turning down his aide, a move Clint mirrors--from how far the noise level raises as everyone screams in celebration, turning to their loved ones for kisses. He’s thrown off when his shirt is grabbed and Natasha plants her lips firmly against his for a whole two seconds before turning to Barnes, repeating the gesture. He’s stunned for a full second until Barnes is grabbing him, kissing him for the briefest of second before turning to Sam who attempts to escape the kiss fest Natasha and Barnes have initiated. Natasha has cornered Pietro, planting a wet smack to his lips while the man mutters something that has both his sister and Natasha doubling over.

Steve licks his lips, his eyes going to Barnes who is consoling Clint, having caught him in the kiss attack too. Once, twice, his tongue darts across his own lips finding them remarkably dry except a lingering taste of blistex. He pulls his phone out, texting Sharon. “I just got lip assaulted by Natasha. Happy New Year.”

Sharon sends back an immediate response with those emojis that are laughing so hard they’re crying, followed closely by a banner that reads Happy New Year in glitter font. 

Here’s to a new year, Steve thinks. A new year and new adventures.

-end chapter 1-

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter. Comments are super appreciated. Thank you for reading~!
> 
> I'll try to get the next chapter up ASAP. I have up to chapter 8 done, they just need to be cleaned up. Hopefully, I don't keep you waiting to long.


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